No More Learning

TWO FAMOUS MEN
From the Journal of the De Goncourts
M
ARCH 3D [1862]. We took a walk and went off to find Thé-
ophile Gautier.
The street in which he lives is
composed of the most squalid countrified buildings, of
court-yards swarming with poultry, fruit shops whose doors are
ornamented with little brooms of black feathers: just such a sub-
urban street as Hervier might have painted.
We pushed
open the door of a house, and found ourselves in the presence.
of the lord of epithet. The furniture was of gilded wood, covered
with red damask, after the heavy Venetian style; there were fine
old pictures of the Italian school; above the chimney a mirror
innocent of quicksilver, on which were scraped colored arabesques
and various Persian characters, such a picture of meagre sump-
tuousness and faded splendor as one would find in the rooms of a
retired actress, who had come in for some pictures through the
bankruptcy of an Italian manager.
When we asked him if we were disturbing him, he answered:
"Not at all. I never work at home. I get through my 'copy'
at the printing-office. They set up the type as I write. The
smell of the printers' ink is a sure stimulant to work, for one
feels the 'copy' must be handed in. I could write only a novel
in this way now; unless I saw ten lines printed I could not get
on to the next ten. The proof-sheet serves as a test to one's
·
·


## p. 6554 (#544) ###########################################

6554
THE BROTHERS DE GONCOURT
work. That which is already done becomes impersonal, but the
actual 'copy' is part of yourself; it hangs like filaments from
the root of your literary life, and has not yet been torn away. I
have always been preparing corners where I should do my work,
but when installed there I found I could do nothing. I must be
in the midst of things, and can work only when a racket is going
on about me; whereas, when I shut myself up for work the soli-
tude tells upon me and makes me sad. "
From there Gautier got on the subject of the "Queen of
Sheba. ' We admitted our infirmity, our physical incapacity of
taking in musical sound; and indeed, a military band is the high-
est musical enjoyment of which we are capable. Whereupon
Gautier said, "Well, I'm delighted to hear that: I am just like
you; I prefer silence to music. I do know bad music from good,
because part of my life was spent with a singer, but both are
quite indifferent to me. Still it is curious that all the literary
men of our day feel the same about music. Balzac abhorred it,
Hugo cannot endure it, Lamartine has a horror of it. There
are only a few painters who have a taste for it. "
Then Gautier fell to complaining of the times. "Perhaps I
am getting an old man, but I begin to feel as if there were no
more air to breathe. What is the use of wings if there is no air
in which one can soar? I no longer feel as if I belonged to the
present generation. Yes, 1830 was a glorious epoch, but I was
too young by two or three years; I was not carried away by the
current; I was not ready for it. I ought to have produced a
very different sort of work. ”
There was then some talk of Flaubert, of his literary meth-
ods, of his indefatigable patience, and of the seven years he
devoted to a work of four hundred pages. "Just listen," ob-
served Gautier, "to what Flaubert said to me the other day: 'It
is finished. I have only ten more pages to write; but the ends
of my sentences are all in my head. ' So that he already hears
in anticipation the music of the last words of his sentences before
the sentences themselves have been written. Was it not a quaint
expression to use? I believe he has devised a sort of literary
rhythm. For instance, a phrase which begins in slow measure
must not finish with a quick pace, unless some special effect is
to be produced. Sometimes the rhythm is only apparent to him-
self, and escapes our notice. A story is not written for the
purpose of being read aloud: yet he shouts his to himself as


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THE BROTHERS DE GONCOURT
6555
These shouts present to his own ears harmon-
he writes them.
ies, but his readers seem unaware of them. "
Gautier's daughters have a charm of their own, a species of
Oriental languor, deep dreamy eyes, veiled by heavy eyelids, and
a regularity in their gestures and movements which they inherit
from their father; but this regularity is tempered in them by
womanly grace. There is a charm about them which is not all
French; nevertheless there is a French element about it, their
little tomboyish tricks and expressions, their habit of pouting,
the shrugging of their shoulders, the irony which escapes through
the thin veil of childishness intended to conceal it. All these
points distinguish them from ordinary society girls, and make
clear a strong individuality of character which renders them fear-
less in expressing their likings and antipathies. They display
liberty of speech, and have often the manner of a woman whose
face is hidden by a mask; and yet one finds here simplicity,
candor, and a charming absence of reserve, utterly unknown to
the ordinary young girl.
NOVE
OVEMBER 23D [1863]. - We have been to thank Michelet for
the flattering lines he wrote about us.
He lives in the Rue de l'Ouest, at the end of the Jar-
din du Luxembourg, in a large house which might almost be
workmen's dwellings. His flat is on the third floor. A maid
opened the door and announced us. We penetrated into a small
study.
The wife of the historian has a young, serious face; she was
seated on a chair beside the desk on which the lamp was placed,
with her back to the window. Michelet sat on a couch of green
velvet, and was banked up by cushions.
His attitude reminded us of his historical work: the lower
portions of his body were in full sight, whilst the upper were
half concealed; the face was a mere shadow surrounded with
snowy white locks; from this shadowy mass emerged a professo-
rial, sonorous, singsong voice, consciously important, and in which
the ascending and descending scale produced a continuous cooing
sound.
He spoke to us in a most appreciative manner of our study
of Watteau, and then passed on to the interesting study which
might be written on French furniture.


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6556
THE BROTHERS DE GONCOURT
"You gentlemen, who are observers of human nature," he
cried suddenly, "there is a history you should write,- the history
of the lady's-maid. I do not speak of Madame de Maintenon;
but you have Mademoiselle de Launai, the Duchesse de Gram-
mont's Julie, who exercised on her mistress so great an influence,
especially in the Corsican affair. Madame Du Deffand said some-
times that there were only two people sincerely attached to her,
D'Alembert and her maid. Oh! domesticity has played a great
part in history, though men-servants have been of comparative
unimportance.
"I was once going through England, traveling from York to
Halifax. There were pavements in the country lanes, with the
grass growing on each side as carefully kept as the pavements
themselves; close by, sheep were grazing, and the whole scene
was lit up by gas. A singular sight! "
Then after a short pause: -"Have you noticed that the physi-
ognomy of the great men of to-day is so rarely in keeping with
their intellect? Look at their portraits, their photographs: there
are no longer any good portraits. Remarkable people no longer
possess in their faces anything which distinguishes them from
ordinary folk. Balzac had nothing characteristic.
Would you
recognize Lamartine if you saw him? There is nothing in the
shape of his head, or in his lustreless eyes, nothing but a certain
elegance which age has not affected. The fact is that in these
days there is too great an accumulation of people and things,
much more so than in former times. We assimilate too much
from other people, and this being the case, we lose even the
individuality of our features; we present the portrait of a collect-
ive set of people rather than of ourselves. "
We rose to take our leave; he accompanied us to the door;
then by the light of the lamp he carried in his hand we saw,
for a second at least, this marvelous historian of dreams, the
great somnambulist of the past and brilliant talker of the present.


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THE BROTHERS DE GONCOURT
6557
THE SUICIDE
From Sister Philomène ›
THE
HE next morning the whole hospital knew that Barnier, hav-
ing scratched his hand on the previous day while dissecting
a body in a state of purulent infection, was dying in terri-
ble agonies.
When at four o'clock Malivoire, quitting for a few moments
the bedside of his friend, came to replace him in the service, the
Sister went up to him. She followed from bed to bed, dogging
his steps, without however accosting him, without speaking,
watching him intently with her eyes fixed on his. As he was
leaving the ward:-
"Well? " she asked, in the brief tone with which women stop
the doctor on his last visit at the threshold of the room.
"No hope," said Malivoire, with a gesture of despair; "there
is nothing to be done. It began at his right ankle, went up the
leg and thigh, and has attacked all the articulations.
Such ago-
nies, poor fellow! It will be a mercy when it's over. ”
"Will he be dead before night? " asked the Sister calmly.
"Oh no! He will live through the night. It is the same
case as that of Raguideau three years ago; and Raguideau lasted
forty-eight hours. "
That evening, at ten o'clock, Sister Philomène might be seen
entering the church of Notre Dame des Victoires.
The lamps were being lowered, the lighted tapers were being
put out one by one with a long-handled extinguisher. The priest
had just left the vestry.
The Sister inquired where he lived, and was told that his
house was a couple of steps from the church, in the Rue de la
Banque.
The priest was just going into the house when she entered
behind, pushing open the door he was closing.
"Come in, Sister," he said, unfurling his wet umbrella and
placing it on the tiled floor in the ante-room. And he turned
toward her She was on her knees. "What are you doing,
Sister? " he said, astonished at her attitude. "Get up, my child.
This is not a fit place. Come, get up! "
"You will save him, will you not? " and Philomène caught
hold of the priest's hands as he stretched them out to help her to
rise. "Why do you object to my remaining on my knees? "


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6558
THE BROTHERS DE GONCOURT
"Come, come, my child, do not be so excited.
remember, who can save. I can but pray. "
"Ah! you can only pray," she said in a disappointed
"Yes, that is true. "
It is God alone,
-
And her eyes sank to the ground. After a moment's
the priest went on:-
"Come, Sister, sit down there. You are calmer now, are you
not? Tell me, what is it you want?
>>
<< It
never
"He is dying," said Philomène, rising as she spoke. "He will
probably not live through the night;" and she began to cry.
is for a young man of twenty-seven years of age; he has
performed any of his religious duties, never been near a church,
never prayed to God since his first communion. He will
to listen to anything. He no longer knows a prayer even
will listen neither to priest nor any one. And I tell you1 it is
all over with him,- he is dying. Then I remembered you
fraternity of Notre Dame des Victoires, since it is devoted to
who do not believe. Come, you must save him! "
refuse
He
I Con-
those
tone.
"My daughter-»
"And perhaps he is dying at this very moment. Oh! promise
me you will do all at once, all that is in the Confraternity
the prayers, everything, in short.
book;
You will have him prayed
for at once, won't you? "
"But, my poor child, it is Friday to-day, and the Confrater-
nity only meets on Thursday. "
«<
Thursday only — why? It will be too late Thursday. He will
never live till Thursday. Come, you must save him; you
saved many another. "
have
Sister Philomène looked at the priest with wide-opened
in which through her tears rose a glance of revolt, impatience,
and command. For one instant in that room there was no longer
a Sister standing before a priest, but a woman face to face
with
an old man.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
pause
The priest resumed:-
"All I can do at present for that young man, my dear daugh
ter, is to apply to his benefit all the prayers and good works
are being carried on by the Confraternity, and I will offer
up to the Blessed and Immaculate Heart of Mary to obtain
conversion. I will pray for him to-morrow at mass, and aga
Saturday and Sunday. "
in
eyes,
that
them
his
on
"Oh, I am so thankful," said Philomène, who felt tears
gently to her eyes as the priest spoke to her. "Now I an
rise
full


## p. 6559 (#549) ###########################################

THE BROTHERS DE GONCOURT
6559
of hope; he will be converted, he will have pity on himself. Give
me your blessing for him. "
"But Sister, I only bless from the altar, in the pulpit, or in
the confessional. There only am I the minister of God. Here,
my Sister, here I am but a weak man, a miserable sinner. "
"That does not signify; you are always God's minister, and
you cannot, you would not, refuse me; he is at the point of
death. "
She fell on her knees as she spoke. The priest blessed her,
and added:-
"It is nearly eleven o'clock, Sister; you have nearly three
miles to get home, all Paris to cross at this late hour. "
"Oh, I am not afraid,” replied Philomène with a smile;
"God knows why I am in the street. Moreover, I will tell my
beads on the way. The Blessed Virgin will be with me. "
The same evening, Barnier, rousing himself from a silence.
that had lasted the whole day, said to Malivoire, "You will write
to my mother. You will tell her that this often happens in our
profession. "
"But you are not yet as bad as all that, my dear fellow,"
replied Malivoire, bending over the bed.
"I am sure I shall
save you. "
――――
"No, I chose my man too well for that. How well I took
you in, my poor Malivoire! " and he smiled almost. "You under-
stand, I could not kill myself. I did not wish to be the death of
my old mother. But an accident-that settles everything. You
will take all my books, do you hear? and my case of instruments
also. I wish you to have all. You wonder why I have killed
myself, don't you? Come nearer. It is on account of that
woman. I never loved but her in all my life. They did not
give her enough chloroform; I told them so. Ah! if you had
heard her scream when she awoke - before it was over! That
scream still re-echoes in my ears! However," he continued, after
a nervous spasm, "if I had to begin again, I would choose some
other way of dying, some way in which I should not suffer so
much. Then, you know, she died, and I fancied I had killed
her. She is ever before me, . . covered with blood. . . . And
then I took to drinking. I drank because I love her still. . . .
That's all! ”
After a long pause, he again
Barnier relapsed into silence.
spoke, and said to Malivoire:


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6560
THE BROTHERS DE GONCOURT
"You will tell my mother to take care of the little lad. ”
After another pause, the following words escaped him:-
"The Sister would have said a prayer. "
.
Shortly after, he asked:-
"What o'clock is it? "
"Eleven. "
"Time is not up yet;
I shall last till to-morrow. "
·
I have still some hours to live.
A little later he again inquired the time, and crossing his
hands on his breast, in a faint voice he called Malivoire and
tried to speak to him. But Malivoire could not catch the words
he muttered.
Then the death-rattle began, and lasted till morn.
A candle lighted up the room.
It burnt slowly, it lighted up the four white walls on which
the coarse ochre paint of the door and of the two cupboards cut
a sharp contrast.
On the iron bedstead with its dimity curtains, a sheet lay
thrown over a motionless body, molding the form as wet linen
might do, indicating with the inflexibility of an immutable line.
the rigidity, from the tip of the toes to the sharp outline of the
face, of what it covered.
Near a white wooden table Malivoire, seated in a large
wicker arm-chair, watched and dozed, half slumbering and yet
not quite asleep.
In the silence of the room nothing could be heard but the
ticking of the dead man's watch.
From behind the door something seemed gently to move and
advance, the key turned in the lock, and Sister Philomène stood
beside the bed. Without looking at Malivoire, without seeing
him, she knelt down and prayed in the attitude of a kneeling
marble statue; and the folds of her gown were as motionless as
the sheet that covered the dead man.
At the end of a quarter of an hour she rose, walked away
without once looking round, and disappeared.
The next day, awaking at the hollow sound of the coffin
knocking against the narrow stairs, Malivoire vaguely recalled
the night's apparition, and wondered if he had dreamed it; and
going mechanically up to the table by the bedside, he sought
for the lock of hair he had cut off for Barnier's mother: the
lock of hair had vanished.


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THE BROTHERS DE GONCOURT
6561
THE AWAKENING
From Renée Mauperin'
LITTLE stage had been erected at the end of the Mauperins'
A drawing-room. The footlights were hidden behind a screen
of foliage and flowering shrubs. Renée, with the help of
her drawing-master, had painted the curtain, which represented
a view on the banks of the Seine. On either side of the stage
hung a bill, on which were these words, written by hand:
LA BRICHE THEATRE
THIS EVENING,
THE CAPRICE,'
To conclude with
'HARLEQUIN, A BIGAMIST. '
--
And then followed the names of the actors.
On all the chairs in the house, which had been seized and
arranged in rows before the stage, women in low gowns were
squeezed together, mixing their skirts, their lace, the sparkle of
their diamonds, and the whiteness of their shoulders. The fold-
ing doors of the drawing-room had been taken down, and showed,
in the little drawing-room which led to the dining-room, a crowd
of men in white neckties, standing on tiptoe.
――
The curtain rose upon 'The Caprice. ' Renée played with much
spirit the part of Madame de Léry. Henry, as the husband, re-
vealed one of those real theatrical talents which are often found
in cold young men and in grave men of the world. Naomi her-
self— carried away by Henry's acting, carefully prompted by
Denoisel from behind the scenes, a little intoxicated by her audi-
ence - played her little part of a neglected wife very tolerably.
This was a great relief to Madame Bourjot. Seated in the front
row, she had followed her daughter with anxiety. Her pride
dreaded a failure. The curtain fell, the applause burst out, and
all the company were called for. Her daughter had not been
ridiculous; she was happy in this great success, and she com-
posedly gave herself up to the speeches, opinions, congratulations,
which, as in all representations of private theatricals, followed
the applause and continued in murmurs. Amidst all that she
thus vaguely heard, one sentence, pronounced close by her,
XI-411


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6562
THE BROTHERS DE GONCOURT
reached her ears clear and distinct above the buzz of general
conversation: -"Yes, it is his sister, I know; but I think that
for the part he is not sufficiently in love with her, and really
too much in love with his wife: did you notice it? » And the
speaker, feeling that she was being overheard by Madame Bour-
jot, leaned over and whispered in her neighbor's ear. Madame
Bourjot became serious.
After a pause the curtain went up again, and Henry Mau-
perin appeared as Pierrot or Harlequin, not in the traditional
sack of white calico and black cap, but as an Italian harlequin,
with a white three-cornered hat, and dressed entirely in white.
satin from head to foot. A shiver of interest ran through the
women, proving that the costume and the man were both charm-
ing; and the folly began.
It was the mad story of Pierrot, married to one woman and
wishing to marry another; a farce intermingled with passion,
which had been unearthed by a playwright, with the help of a
poet, from a collection of old comic plays. Renée this time acted
the part of the neglected woman, who in various disguises inter-
fered between her husband and his gallant adventures, and Naomi
that of the woman he loved. Henry, in his scenes of love with
the latter, carried all before him. He played with youth, with
brilliancy, with excitement. In the scene in which he avows his
love, his voice was full of the passionate cry of a declaration
which overflows and swamps everything. True, he had to act
with the prettiest Columbine in the world: Naomi looked delicious
that evening in her bridal costume of Louis XVI. , copied exactly
from the Bride's Minuet,' a print by Debucourt, which Barousse
had lent for the purpose.
A sort of enchantment filled the whole room, and reached
Madame Bourjot; a sort of sympathetic complicity with the actors
seemed to encourage the pretty couple to love one another. The
piece went on. Now and again Henry's eyes seemed to look for
those of Madame Bourjot, over the footlights. Meanwhile, Renée
appeared disguised as the village bailiff; it only remained to sign
the contract; Pierrot, taking the hand of the woman he loved,
began to tell her of all the happiness he was going to have with
her.
The woman who sat next to Madame Bourjot felt her lean
somewhat on her shoulder. Henry finished his speech, the piece
disentangled itself and came to an end. All at once Madame


## p. 6563 (#553) ###########################################

THE BROTHERS DE GONCOURT
6563
Bourjot's neighbor saw something glide down her arm; it was
Madame Bourjot, who had just fainted.
"Он, do pray go indoors," said Madame Bourjot to the people
who were standing around her. She had been carried into the
garden. "It is past now; it is really nothing; it was only the
heat. " She was quite pale, but she smiled. "I only want a little
air. Let M. Henry only stay with me. "
The audience retired. Scarcely had the sound of feet died.
away, when—"You love her! " said Madame Bourjot, seizing
Henry's arm as though she were taking him prisoner with her
feverish hands; "you love her! "
"Madame-" said Henry.
"Hold your tongue! you lie! " And she threw his arm from
her. Henry bowed. -"I know all. I have seen all. But look.
at me! " and with her eyes she closely scanned his face. Henry
stood before her, his head bent. -"At least speak to me! You
can speak, at any rate! Ah, I see it,-you can only act in her
company! "
"I have nothing to say to you, Laura," said Henry in his
softest and clearest voice. Madame Bourjot started at this name
of Laura as though he had touched her. "I have struggled for
a year, madame," began Henry; "I have no excuse to make.
But my heart is fast. We knew each other as children. The
charm has grown day by day. I am very unhappy, madame, at
having to acknowledge the truth to you. I love your daughter,
that is true. "
"But have you ever spoken to her? I blush for her when
there are people there! Have you ever looked at her? Do you
think her pretty? What possesses you men ? Come! I am
better-looking than she is! You men are fools. And besides, my
friend, I have spoiled you. Go to her and ask her to caress your
pride, to tickle your vanity, to flatter and to serve your ambitions,
-for you are ambitious: I know you! Ah, M. Mauperin, one
can only find that once in a lifetime! And it is only women of
my age, old women like me, do you hear me? -who love the
future of the people whom they love! You were not my lover,
you were my grandchild! " And at this word, her voice sounded.
as though it came from the bottom of her heart. Then imme-
diately changing her tone-"But don't be foolish! I tell you
you don't really love my daughter; it is not true: she is rich! "
1


## p. 6564 (#554) ###########################################

6564
THE BROTHERS DE GONCOURT
"O madame! "
"Good gracious! there are lots of people. They have been
pointed out to me. It pays sometimes to begin with the mother
and finish with the dower. And a million, you know, will gild
a good many pills. "
"Speak lower, I implore
just opened a window. "
"Calmness is very fine,
repeated Madame Bourjot.
to stifle her.
-
for your own sake: some one has
M. Mauperin, very fine, very fine,"
And her low, hissing voice seemed
Clouds were scudding across the sky, and passed over the
moon looking like huge bats' wings. Madame Bourjot gazed
fixedly into the darkness, straight in front of her. Her elbows
resting on her knees, her weight thrown on to her heels, she
was beating with the points of her satin shoes the gravel of the
path. After a few minutes she sat upright, stretched out her
arms two or three times wildly and as though but half awake;
then, hastily and with jerks, she pushed her hand down between
her gown and her waistband, pressing her hand against the rib-
bon as though she would break it. Then she rose and began to
walk. Henry followed her.
"I intend, sir, that we shall never see each other again," she
said to him, without turning round.
As they passed near the basin, she handed him her handker-
chief:
"Wet that for me. "
Henry put one knee on the margin and gave her back the
lace, which he had moistened. She laid it on her forehead and
on her eyes. "Now let us go in," she said; "give me your
arm. "
"Oh, dear madame, what courage! " said Madame Mauperin,
going to meet Madame Bourjot as she entered; "but it is unwise.
of you.
Let me order your carriage. "
"On no account," answered Madame Bourjot hastily: "I thank
you. I promised that I would sing for you, I think. I am going
to sing. "
And Madame Bourjot advanced to the piano, graceful and
valiant, with the heroic smile on her face wherewith the actors
of society hide from the public the tears that they shed within
themselves, and the wounds which are only known to their own
hearts.


## p. 6565 (#555) ###########################################

6565
•
EDMUND GOSSE
(1849-)
E
DMUND WILLIAM GOSSE, or Edmund Gosse, to give him the
name he has of late years adopted, is a Londoner, the son
of P. H. Gosse, an English zoölogist of repute. His educa-
tion did not embrace the collegiate training, but he was brought up
amid cultured surroundings, read largely, and when but eighteen was
appointed an assistant librarian in the British Museum, at the age of
twenty-six receiving the position of translator to the Board of Trade.
Gosse is a good example of the cultivated man of letters who fitted
himself thoroughly for his profession, though lacking the formal scho-
lastic drill of the university.
He began as a very young man to write for the leading English
periodicals, contributing papers and occasional poems to the Saturday
Review, Academy, and Cornhill Magazine, and soon gaining critical
recognition. In 1872 and 1874 he traveled in Scandinavia and Hol-
land, making literary studies which bore fruit in one of his best crit-
ical works. He made his literary bow when twenty-one with the
volume 'Madrigals, Songs, and Sonnets' (1870), which was well re-
ceived, winning praise from Tennyson. His essential qualities as a
verse-writer appear in it: elegance and care of workmanship, close
study of nature, felicity in phrasing, and a marked tendency to draw
on literary culture for subject and reference. Other works of poetry,
'On Viol and Flute' (1873), 'New Poems' (1879), 'Firdausī in Exile'
(1885), In Russet and Gold' (1894), with the dramas King Erik'
(1876) and The Unknown Lover' (1878), show an increasingly firm
technique and a broadening of outlook, with some loss of the happy
singing quality which characterized the first volume.
Gosse as a poet
may be described as a lyrist with attractive descriptive powers. To-
gether with his fellow poets Lang and Dobson, he revived in English
verse the old French metrical forms, such as the roundel, triolet, and
ballade, and he has been very receptive to the new in literary form
and thought, while keeping a firm grip on the classic models.
As an essayist, Gosse is one of the most accomplished and agree-
able of modern English writers; he has comprehensive culture and
catholic sympathy, and commands a picturesque style, graceful and
rich without being florid. His Studies in the Literature of Northern
Europe' (1879) introduced Ibsen and other little-known foreign writers
to British readers.


## p. 6566 (#556) ###########################################

6566
EDMUND GOSSE
Gosse has been a thorough student of English literature prior to
the nineteenth century, and has made a specialty of the literary his-
tory of the eighteenth century, his series of books in this field includ-
ing-Seventeenth-Century Studies' (1883), From Shakespeare to
Pope (1885), The Literature of the Eighteenth Century' (1889),
"The Jacobean Poets' (1894), to which may be added the volume of
contemporaneous studies Critical Kit-Kats' (1896). Some of these
books are based on the lectures delivered by Gosse as Clark Lecturer
at Trinity College, Cambridge. He has also written biographies of
Sir Walter Raleigh and Congreve, and his 'Life of Thomas Gray'
(1882) and Works of Thomas Gray' (1884) comprise the best edition
and setting-forth of that poet. In such labors as that of the editing
of Heinemann's 'International Library,' his influence has been salu-
tary in the popularization of the best literature of the world. His
interest in Ibsen led him to translate, in collaboration with William
Archer, the dramatic critic of London, the Norwegian's play 'The
Master Builder. '
Edmund Gosse, as editor, translator, critic, and poet, has done
varied and excellent work. Sensitive to many literatures, and to good
literature everywhere, he has remained stanchly English in spirit, and
has combined scholarship with popular qualities of presentation.
has thus contributed not a little to the furtherance of literature in
England.
[The poems are all taken from 'On Viol and Flute,' published by Henry Holt
& Co. , New York. ]
FEBRUARY IN ROME
WHE
HEN Roman fields are red with cyclamen,
And in the palace gardens you may find,
Under great leaves and sheltering briony-bind,
Clusters of cream-white violets, oh then
The ruined city of immortal men
Must smile, a little to her fate resigned,
And through her corridors the slow warm wind
Gush harmonies beyond a mortal ken.
Such soft favonian airs upon a flute,
Such shadowy censers burning live perfume,
Shall lead the mystic city to her tomb;
Nor flowerless springs, nor autumns without fruit,
Nor summer mornings when the winds are mute,
Trouble her soul till Rome be no more Rome.


## p. 6567 (#557) ###########################################

EDMUND GOSSE
6567
DESIDERIUM
ST
IT there for ever, dear, and lean
In marble as in fleeting flesh,
Above the tall gray reeds that screen
The river when the breeze is fresh;
For ever let the morning light
Stream down that forehead broad and white,
And round that cheek for my delight.
Already that flushed moment grows
So dark, so distant; through the ranks
Of scented reed the river flows,
Still murmuring to its willowy banks;
But we can never hope to share
Again that rapture fond and rare,
Unless you turn immortal there.
There is no other way to hold
These webs of mingled joy and pain;
Like gossamer their threads enfold
The journeying heart without a strain,—
Then break, and pass in cloud or dew,
And while the ecstatic soul goes through,
Are withered in the parching blue.
Hold, Time, a little while thy glass,
And Youth, fold up those peacock wings!
More rapture fills the years that pass
Than any hope the future brings;
Some for to-morrow rashly pray,
And some desire to hold to-day,
But I am sick for yesterday.
Since yesterday the hills were blue
That shall be gray for evermore,
And the fair sunset was shot through
With color never seen before!
Tyrannic Love smiled yesterday,
And lost the terrors of his sway,
But is a god again to-day.
Ah, who will give us back the past?
Ah woe, that youth should love to be
Like this swift Thames that speeds so fast,
And is so fain to find the sea,-
-


## p. 6568 (#558) ###########################################

6568
EDMUND GOSSE
That leaves this maze of shadow and sleep,
These creeks down which blown blossoms creep,
For breakers of the homeless deep.
Then sit for ever, dear, in stone,
As when you turned with half a smile,
And I will haunt this islet lone,
And with a dream my tears beguile;
And in my reverie forget
That stars and suns were made to set;
That love grows cold, or eyes are wet.
LYING IN THE GRASS
B
ETWEEN two golden tufts of summer grass,
I see the world through hot air as through glass,
And by my face sweet lights and colors pass.
Before me dark against the fading sky,
I watch three mowers mowing, as I lie:
With brawny arms they sweep in harmony.
Brown English faces by the sun burnt red,
Rich glowing color on bare throat and head,—
My heart would leap to watch them, were I dead!
And in my strong young living as I lie,
I seem to move with them in harmony,-
A fourth is mowing, and the fourth am I.
The music of the scythes that glide and leap,
The young men whistling as their great arms sweep,
And all the perfume and sweet sense of sleep,
The weary butterflies that droop their wings,
The dreamy nightingale that hardly sings,
And all the lassitude of happy things,
Is mingling with the warm and pulsing blood,
That gushes through my veins a languid flood,
And feeds my spirit as the sap a bud.
Behind the mowers, on the amber air,
A dark-green beech wood rises, still and fair,
A white path winding up it like a stair.


## p. 6569 (#559) ###########################################

EDMUND GOSSE
6569
And see that girl, with pitcher on her head,
And clean white apron on her gown of red, -
Her evensong of love is but half said:
She waits the youngest mower.
Now he goes;
Her cheeks are redder than a wild blush-rose;
They climb up where the deepest shadows close.
But though they pass, and vanish, I am there.
I watch his rough hands meet beneath her hair;
Their broken speech sounds sweet to me like prayer.
Ah! now the rosy children come to play,
And romp and struggle with the new-mown hay;
Their clear, high voices sound from far away.
They know so little why the world is sad;
They dig themselves warm graves, and yet are glad;
Their muffled screams and laughter make me mad!
I long to go and play among them there;
Unseen, like wind, to take them by the hair,
And gently make their rosy cheeks more fair.
The happy children! full of frank surprise,
And sudden whims and innocent ecstasies;
What Godhead sparkles from their liquid eyes!
No wonder round those urns of mingled clays
That Tuscan potters fashioned in old days,
And colored like the torrid earth ablaze,
We find the little gods and Loves portrayed,
Through ancient forests wandering undismayed,
And fluting hymns of pleasure unafraid.
They knew, as I do now, what keen delight
A strong man feels to watch the tender flight
Of little children playing in his sight.
I do not hunger for a well-stored mind;
I only wish to live my life, and find
My heart in unison with all mankind.
My life is like the single dewy star
That trembles on the horizon's primrose bar,—
A microcosm where all things living are.


## p. 6570 (#560) ###########################################

6570
EDMUND GOSSE
And if, among the noiseless grasses, Death
Should come behind and take away my breath,
I should not rise as one who sorroweth;
For I should pass, but all the world would be
Full of desire and young delight and glee,—
And why should men be sad through loss of me?
The light is flying; in the silver blue
The young moon shines from her bright window through:
The mowers are all gone, and I go too.


## p. 6571 (#561) ###########################################

6571
RUDOLF VON GOTTSCHALL
(1823-)
UDOLPH VON GOTTSCHALL was born in Breslau, September 30th,
1823. He was the son of a Prussian artillery officer, and as a
lad gave early evidence of extraordinary talent. His father
was transferred to the Rhine, and young Gottschall was sent success-
ively to the gymnasiums of Mainz and Coblenz. Even in his school
days, and before he entered the university, he had through his clev-
erness attained a certain degree of eminence. His career at the
University of Königsberg, whither he went to pursue the study of
jurisprudence, was interrupted by the results attendant upon a youth-
ful ebullition of the spirit of freedom. His sympathy with the revo-
lutionary element was too boldly expressed,
and when in 1842 he published 'Lieder der
Gegenwart' (Songs of the Present), he found
it necessary to leave the university in order
to avert impending consequences. In the
following year he published Censurflücht-
linge (Fugitives from the Censor), a poem
of a kind not in the least likely to con-
ciliate the authorities. He remained for a
time with Count Reichenbach in Silesia, and
then went to Berlin, where he was allowed
to complete his studies. He was however
refused the privilege of becoming a univer-
sity docent, although he had regularly taken R.